


en prise

by hieronyma



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieronyma/pseuds/hieronyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1945-1961.</p>
            </blockquote>





	en prise

**Author's Note:**

> Written for moonshine-aqua for the APH gen fic exchange! The prompt I chose was: _anything Prussia/Germany as brothers + Berlin Wall/Prussian Dissolution_ , but it sort of got away from me. As do most things. Happy New Year, and I hope it satisfies!
> 
> This is excessively historical and somewhat vague and disjointed, and it skips over a lot, but I ran out of time (and into overtime) so take it with a grain of salt. I'd like to add more, so it's a bit unfinished. Historical notes at the bottom.

_Two soldiers are patrolling the Wall, looking west. One says, ’What are you thinking of when you see the enemy state of our homeland?’_

_The other replies, ’The same as you.’_

_The first soldier shakes his head. ' Then, unfortunately,’ he says, ‘I have to arrest you.”_

 

* * *

  

Prussia, on his knees. Head bent. Touch of wet steel pipe against his cheek. Like a baseball bat.

Shiny boots in his field of vision. Slick, spattered.

Above him, vengeance.

“What is it you used to say?” asks Russia. “Ah, yes. _Repent._ ”

 

* * *

 

The smell of blood. The smell of flesh. The smell of snow.

The sky. A ceiling. The sky.

 

* * *

 

“West,” says the Soviet Occupation Zone, who is also Prussia—still, somehow. “Don’t forget about me.”

Ludwig looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “Never.”

They stand together at Friedrichstraße station. A dark bird against the gray sky. Clouds behind the train shed. Ludwig reaches for Prussia’s hand; Prussia takes it.

 

* * *

 

At the Kammergericht, Prussia is seated at a conference table. Across from him: America, England, France, and Russia. A bank of windows behind them. Four silhouettes. Gray morning light. Gray like the room.

Prussia waits.

America is leaning his head on his fist. His other hand rests against the polished oak. His fingers tap. One-two-three-four. Good as drums. Good as a death knell.

“So,” America says. “This is how it’s gonna go.”

Prussia’s nose prickles. Something at the back of it. He touches two fingers to his nostrils and draws them away wet. Well, he should have guessed. An ache begins in his skull. Any minute now.

Across the table, Russia’s flat purple eyes bore into him.

 

* * *

 

Then Prussia dies.

But he doesn’t, really.

 

* * *

 

Prussia dies, but Gilbert Beilschmidt takes a walk.

First he walks through Unter den Linden, from the ruins of Kronprinzenpalais to Brandenburg Gate. Then he stands a while in Pariser Platz. Though he walks the length of Königsplatz, he does not look too long at the hollow bones of the Reichstag, the Soviet graffiti there.

He crosses the border—easy, too easy, they’ll do something about that—and finds Ludwig’s new apartment, in Steglitz. He raises his hand to knock. His knuckles never touch the wood; they fall. A loose fist. He draws away and waits under the dappled shadows of an oak tree. Then, seven-thirty on the dot, Ludwig exits the building for his morning run and takes off at speed toward the town hall. He doesn't know yet.

This is the last time Gilbert sees Ludwig for a very long while. Quietly, and from a distance.

 

* * *

 

“Why are you doing this?”

America has the wind in his hair. He looks out at the city and blows smoke past his lips.

“Why wouldn’t I be doing it?”

Germany has the small of his back against the parapet. “Two very good reasons come to mind.”

America laughs. “Yeah, we’ve already established that you’re a glutton for punishment. Give me something else.”

Germany is quiet. America glances at him.

“Nothing?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You really don’t, do you.” America sighs. Flicks ash from the end of his cigarette. “Look. It’s simple. I want to help you. _We_ —we want to help you. And more than that, I want us to be friends.” The corner of his mouth crooks up. “All right, England doesn’t really want to be friends, and France doesn’t trust you as far as he can throw you, but they’ll get over it. Eventually.”

Germany looks down.

“It isn’t as if I have a choice in the matter,” he says.

“You always have a choice,” America tells him. “But between me and Russia, I think I’m the better bet, don’t you?”

 

* * *

 

In the small apartment Russia has selected for him, Gilbert sits at the small kitchen table in front of a plate of tasteless food. He considers eating it. Beneath the window, on the street corner: a man in a green coat, black gloves. He’d looked up when Gilbert opened the door in the morning, and again, when he came back.

Russia comes to visit. Maybe twice this year, so far; Gilbert doesn’t know. It’s a smear in his memory. Existing has never felt so…

Dark bruises under Russia’s eyes. His skin stretched thin over the bones of his face. He’s looked like that for a while now, since before the war. Worse, then.

Dark bruises under Gilbert’s eyes. The mirror says so. He should probably believe it.

Russia brings him flowers. Russia makes him tea. Makes him drink it. Sweet lemon on his tongue, heavy in his stomach. The smell of lavender, somewhere. Maybe Russia is trying to make him remember—whatever. The old times. Before all of this.

That’s rich. Joke’s on him. Gilbert never fucking liked his tea anyway.

 

* * *

 

But he drinks it still.

Why not? Why not.

Some mornings, when waking under slats of blind-filtered light, slats like prison bars, he can’t even remember who he is.

 

* * *

 

America lands in Tempelhof at noon. He shakes Germany’s hand on the tarmac and says, “Fuckin’ _Russia_ , man, I swear to God. How’re you holdin’ up?”

He’s still wearing his A-2 flight jacket, thrown casually over his Ike; patches up and down his arms, on his right shoulder—a white eagle on a field of yellow. A reminder.

“Fine,” says Germany. For now.

As if reading his mind, America digs into a pocket and hands over a chocolate bar. “Doesn’t hurt to get a head start,” he grins. Germany takes it. “Let’s go in.”

Inside the airport, England is waiting for them, RAF beret tilted jauntily on his head, fresh from JHQ Rheindahlen. He’s been in West Berlin for weeks helping to streamline his own airlift, though Germany hasn’t seen him—not since Potsdam.

“Good morning,” Germany says, to be polite.

“Good morning,” England replies stiffly. His mouth is pursed, his eyes hard.

“You’re damn right it’s a good morning,” says America cheerfully, thumping England hard on the back. England shoots him an irritated sideways glance. To Germany, America says, “C’mon. Let’s chat.”

America has already talked this over with his people at Wiesbaden. “I did it with China, I can do it with you,” America had assured him. Over the phone, his voice had taken on a staticky arrogance; almost comforting, in its vicious optimism. He is confident it will work. Germany is—well.

It has to work. Berlin is not going to starve because of Russia.

 

* * *

 

“Let me ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“Why are you here?”

Germany frowns, brow creasing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean here. The rest of you—” America is tying up the laces on his boots. He pauses to wave a hand westward. “Over there. You’re surrounded by Soviets. I don’t get it, man. If it were me, I’d get as far away as possible.”

No, he wouldn’t. He’s just saying that, and they both know it.

Germany busies himself with the coffee maker. He says, “It’s my capital, for one thing.”

“Yeah. But that’s not all of it.”

He looks eastward, out of his apartment window. “No. It’s not.”

“You miss him.”

He returns his gaze to America, who stands from his crouch. “Wouldn't you?”

Gilbert had stopped visiting sometime before the blockade. Germany tries not to think the worst. But it’s hard—what Russia did, at the end of the war. Cold smile, cold eyes, cold hands. Cold steel.

Germany got lucky, in many ways. If Prussia hadn’t… but he had. At least America is kind.

“Sure,” says America. He stubs out his cigarette in the tray. “You know Mattie?”

Mattie. Matthew. “Canada. We’ve met.”

Nord–Pas-de-Calais. Then, Dieppe. Not since.

America’s voice sounds like the chiming of a bell. “Yeah. Well, I’d tear Russia limb from fuckin’ limb before I let him get his fat dirty hands on my brother.”

Germany glances away. Guilt builds in his throat, and anger. If this is America’s way of telling him he knows how it feels—

“As you are aware,” he says, voice tight and even, “I am in no position to do anything like that.” _Ever again._

“I know.” America grins. He claps Germany on the shoulder. It feels like a ton of bricks. “That’s why you have _me_.”

 

* * *

 

England at his door, looking at home in the rain. One hand wrapped around the wooden handle of his umbrella, propped up on his thin shoulder; the smell of wet grass.

Germany steps aside to let him in, but England only raises a hand, visibly irritated.

“Don’t trouble yourself, I won’t be long,” he says. “America’s busy and France is heading back to Indochina, so it falls to me inform you—we’ve just decided. You’re a parliamentary democracy now. Congratulations.”

Germany stares at him. Something catches in his throat. He forces it out. “Just now?”

“Yes. As I’ve said. You’ll be expected to relocate to Bonn; we don’t want to have to fight our way through shark-infested waters every time we need to reach you.”

“And whose decision was this?”

“America’s.” England snorts. “Of course. He thinks you’ll be better off in… greener pastures.” His lips thin. “Well, less red ones, anyway. I believe his exact words were, ‘away from those two-timing, vodka-guzzling communist freaks of nature.’ He’s been rather vocal about that lately. I can’t imagine why.”

Germany’s gut twists. The anger rises.

“I see,” he says.

 

* * *

 

_You always have a choice._

He doesn't move to Bonn.

 

* * *

 

“Time to go,” says Russia.

“Fuck you,” says the German Democratic Republic.

He slings his rucksack over his shoulder. It’s all he has left. But now, at least, he knows who he is. “And fuck your boss.”

Russia’s mouth pulls into a serene, pleasant smile.

“He is not so bad,” he says. “You will learn to love him too.”

He takes Gilbert’s arm, directs him toward the door. Thin fingers, iron grip. Too strong.

 _Isn't that the way of it,_ Gilbert thinks. _I’m just trading one asshole for another._

They are driven to Schönefeld airport. They are put on a flight to Moscow. Gilbert looks out of the small windows and watches himself float away through a wispy sheet of clouds. Most of him is gone already, somewhere else, escaped, forced out. But the land remains, and so does he.

He sleeps badly. Difficult not to. They land in Domodedovo airport, catch a train to—somewhere south of Moscow. Russia’s house is impressive, wedged deep into the land, the woods, and Gilbert says, looking at it, _isn’t this a little... bourgeoisie for you?_  And Russia explains: when he lived in St. Petersburg, at the Winter Palace—he came here, in the summers. Now, the dacha is owned by the Party. Repurposed. For him. For them.

“For family,” he says.

Lithuania greets them at the door and offers to take their coats. Gilbert keeps his. He’s cold and he hates it. Lithuania gives him an unreadable look, but if Gilbert had to guess, it's something along the lines of _Welcome_ and _I'm sorry_ and _You’ll get used to it._

There are too many people in this house. Several who hate him. He only recognizes a few; Russia introduces him to the rest. No sympathetic faces here, only tired ones.

Russia makes them tea. Gilbert feels sick. He wraps his fingers around the cup. Thinks about West. How long it might be, the separation. Nothing lasts forever. He tells himself this. He only drinks the tea to feel warm again. He tells himself this, too.

Russia shows him to his new room. He does this personally, through a door near the pantry. It's in the basement.

“The basement,” says Gilbert. “You're serious.”

Russia seems to find it funny. A look in his eye. “There is only so much room in this house.”

Gilbert is too exhausted to feel insulted. Fifteen people live here. Sixteen, now. Russia continues, “Please make yourself at home. You will not hesitate to call if you need anything, yes?”

It’s not a question, so Gilbert doesn’t answer. Russia smiles his not-smile again. He says, “Tomorrow, we will talk.”

Gilbert sits on the bed with his rucksack and coat. Russia leaves.

 

* * *

 

Later, his door opens. A thin shadow at the top of the stairs.

Gilbert is lying back on the bed, ankles crossed, hands folded over his stomach. When he looks up, Belarus is standing over him with a stack of folded clothes in her arms.

“Do not get comfortable,” she snaps, dumping the clothes on top of him. “He is only paying attention to you because you are standing in his way.”

He can’t help it. Gilbert laughs in her face.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says. He palms the grey clothing, returns to staring at the ceiling. Her mouth twists in the corner of his eye. “This is the last fucking place I want to be.”

 

* * *

 

For the most part, Russia is a fair host. But he has his rules. They are expected to speak Russian, for one thing. For another, they are expected to work, and to be there when Russia arrives home in the evenings. If not—nobody has found out what happens if not. But Russia works at the Lubyanka, so—that, maybe.

He’d procured them jobs in Moscow. Generous of him. _He who does not work, neither shall he eat_ , Russia had said, and Gilbert had laughed. That was from, what? The New Testament, then Lenin. Funny. Well, fuck that. He’d rather starve.

He does, for a while. Turns out Russia is only fair when his rules are followed.

 

* * *

 

“Say,” mentions America, suddenly, over his glass of wine, “You haven’t been _speaking_ to the GDR, have you?”

“No,” says Germany. He sets down his fork.

America seems pacified by the answer. He gives a nod. Confirmation.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

 

* * *

 

“Птичка,” Russia says. Vögelchen. Little bird. Never Gilbert. Never East Germany.

Gilbert’s Russian is flawed, but he knows it’s not fondness that shapes that diminutive. Or—not _just_. He can never really tell. But there are connotations. Russia knows this is a cage. He thinks of Gilbert as a pet, maybe. A dog who pissed the rug too many times. To be praised for following orders, and punished for disobeying them.

Does he think he’s taking in strays? Gilbert doesn’t know. Either Russia is insane, or he isn’t; either Russia forgives, or he doesn’t. Gilbert remembers: Russia’s blood on his boots. Wide eyes and broken teeth. Tear tracks on his dirty face. Dead bodies in fields of wheat. But there had been—sadness, instead of hate. He had been Ivan, then. Just a man, like so many others. And then he had died. Again.

And then he had lived. And so had Prussia. And then—Prussia died. And now they’re here.

“What?”

“I have been thinking,” Russia says, “of your brother.”

Gilbert’s blood heats and then freezes. “What about him?”

“I know that you miss him. And I know that it is… unpleasant, to be distanced from family.”

“No shit,” says Gilbert. “Why? It’s not like you’re gonna let me see him.” Or— “Are you?”

“I had been considering it.”

But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. Gilbert knows how this works. “Like a visit?”

“No. Something more substantial.”

A sudden lump in his throat. “You mean—?”

“Yes.” Russia smiles a small smile. “He would enjoy it here. Don’t you think?”

Gilbert’s grin drops from his face.

“You can have me,” he says. “But you leave West out of it.”

It’s a power play, he knows. Like fucking always. Russia doesn’t actually care about West. And if he does—not in the ways that matter. He only cares about West because capitalism cares about West. Because America cares about West. It’s all chess to him.

Still. The ache to see Ludwig again is a heavy stone in his gut. They could survive like this. At least they would be together.

“We’ll see,” Russia murmurs. He drinks his tea.

 

* * *

 

Russia leaves early in the morning. He’s gone all day, and the day after.

Belarus watches Gilbert like a hawk. Frightening woman. Pissing her off would be a bad idea, so he stays in and helps Lithuania clean. It’s always calmed his mind, cleaning—everything in its proper place. But they have to be careful not to disturb the order of things. Russia has an uncanny eye for it.

During his first weeks living in this house, Gilbert had stolen inside Russia's room. It had been… looked… far from comfortable. Grey and brown and lifeless, devoid of character. Papers on the desk. Unimportant. Some literature on the shelves—all approved by the Goskomizdat. Boring. But there had been one thing: a painting on the wall across from the bed. He had thought it looked familiar—something about the brushstrokes, the thick paint. But he wasn't sure.

A house at night. Three figures. And a distant light. A star?

He’d stared at it for a long moment, trying to place it. He thinks of it now and it still bothers him. The lack of transparency. Everything shrouded. He’s never been good with hidden meanings; he doesn’t have time for ambiguity. West was always the one to know about that shit. He could ask, but then Russia would know he’d been in his room uninvited. He might know already, bastard.

Maybe it’s just a house, the painting. Sometimes things just _are._

But probably not.

He folds the rag over his knuckles. “Don’t you hate that he tells us nothing?”

Lithuania looks up from where he’s dusting the oak cabinet. Then he looks back down.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “I don’t know what’s better.”

“I do. Not being in the goddamned dark all the time.”

Lithuania sighs. “You know Thomas Gray?” In English: “ _Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise._ ” Russian again: “Knowing the truth can—hurt, but I also have never liked being lied to.” He’s silent for a moment. “I think he just wants to protect us.”

“From what?”

“From himself. In his way.”

Gilbert doesn’t have words for how angry that makes him. _Patronizing asshole._ He crumples the rag.

Lithuania smiles like he understands. “There’s not much else we can do, is there?”

 

* * *

 

Russia returns in the dead of night. Gilbert knows, because he’s listening for it. The creaks of the floorboards upstairs. The creak of the door. The creak of the steps. Russia is coming down.

He lingers in the dark for a moment. Gilbert doesn’t fake sleeping; he keeps his eyes open in the purply dimness. Russia would know if he pretended, anyway. There's a whiff of… alcohol, but something else. The bed dips as he sits on the edge. The bend of the old mattress, pulling Gilbert toward his body.

Inescapable gravity. Inescapable.

Silence like thick cotton.

“He was not even Russian,” Russia says at last. “Did you know?”

Gilbert didn’t. “Nope,” he says. He doesn’t care. He cares a little. “Who?”

Unexpectedly, Russia laughs.

And laughs.

 

* * *

 

Germany sips his champagne. Looks around the room. But not for too long.

Most of the Western Bloc is here.

And then America. Made for television. Like the men in his advertisements. His hair blonder, his smile whiter, his skin golden with sun. A certain glow about him. Only his eyes give him away. They can’t keep still, darting this way and that, ravenous; his eyes like blue mouths, eating up everything around him.

He reminds Germany of when Prussia was at his best. When they’d first met. Prussia, like a living ghost. White against blue—the sky that day. White all over, except for his eyes. This was before Germany knew who he was. What he was, himself. He thought he had found God, or that God had found him; that had been the only thing to make sense. This was also before God taught him how to fight. Before God was his elder brother, before God made him in his image.

Before God waged war, and died, and America took his place.

They shake hands. “About time, huh?” America says. “Welcome to the club.”

Germany doesn’t smile. His grip is firm. “I’m not a member yet.”

America is all teeth. Sparkling ivory bullets. His mouth, a gun.

“Soon, buddy. Nearly there,” he says. “And it’s gonna make Russia so mad.” He laughs like the sun looks. “Fuck that guy.”

Then America is brushing past him, past all of them, out of the conference room and into the hallway; as he leaves, Germany feels the walls sigh. All the particles in the room resettle. He shares a momentary glance with England, the nearest of the Four. He looks guarded, unnerved. But something... familiar, in the set of his jaw.

He murmurs, “That boy is out of his sodding mind,” and knocks back the rest of his scotch. Like he knows the feeling.

 

* * *

 

Later, America places a gun in Germany's hands.

"Just in case," he says.

Germany takes it. He knows what it's for.

 

* * *

 

Gilbert’s face is in Russia’s hands. Cradled there, like a child’s face. Cold. Prussia remembers a time like this, once. And many times before that, but one in particular. _The hoarfrost in winter. And mud and death and hunger—and then fire._ To other people, it might have appeared to be a fond gesture, but Gilbert is frozen under the touch. A moment passes like this. He's not sure if Russia is going to kiss him or snap his neck.

“Did you know,” Russia says. False cheer leaks from between his teeth. His voice is sticky-sweet, like honey. “Your brother is turning into quite the slut!”

Russia’s breath smells like instant coffee and black tea and tilled soil and old rust. He’s furious.

 _Okay_ , thinks Gilbert. First of all, fuck him. West’s no whore. Second of all, This is America’s fault, he’s sure of it. Nobody else gets this kind of reaction out of Russia, not these days.  _Pravda_ open on the kitchen table. Nothing in there that will explain this. Not yet.

“But I wouldn’t worry,” Russia continues, finally. But there is a note to it. Consideration. A thumb scrapes across Gilbert’s cheek. “I have a plan. You will help.”

 

* * *

  

In chess, pawns are the infantry, the weakest pieces. Expendable. But with the capacity to reach the other side of the board and become a queen, so—also, maybe, the strongest, most versatile pieces. Possibly. Potentially.Gilbert knows this.

The trick is getting there.

One move at a time.

 

* * *

 

But then they build the Wall, and—

 

* * *

 

At the factory, there's a woman Gilbert works with. Nadezhda Sergeevna. She is both young and very old. Small, strong hands. She has two sons, Konstantin and Oleg, and a dead husband. Killed by Germans.

She told him this, on the first day, after she listened to him talk. He didn't apologize. She didn't ask him to. 

Today, she tells him: "You are missing someone."

Gilbert shrugs. "Isn't everyone?"

"You are more obvious about it."

What it is about him that says that? 

An ache in his throat.

"You try too hard," she tells him. "To hide and pretend. You overcompensate. Too concerned with what people think of you."

He snorts. 

"There," says Nadezhda Sergeevna, smiling. "You see? The truth hurts you, and you run from it."

Gilbert narrows his eyes at her. "So what?"

"It hurts you more to pretend you don't feel," she advises him. "You live in Russia now. You cannot hide from sadness here."

  

* * *

 

Seven-thirty in the morning. The Wall is half-lost to a fog of mist.

Germany wraps his coat more firmly around himself. He would be jogging by now, on another day.

America arrived yesterday at Zehlendorf, met with the USAB for lunch, showed up in Steglitz, knocked on Germany’s door. A couple of his boys from Dahlem haven’t seen the Wall yet, so he’s showing them around. There are about fifteen of them. They all look young and sun-burnished, wide-eyed. They group behind, winding after America and Germany like the tail of a comet. 

Germany suspects America is just using the patrol as an excuse to talk to him before he leaves, unofficially. He’s not sure why. America’s reasons for doing anything these days are a mystery to him.

“You ever get used to it?” asks America, switching languages to privatize their conversation. His German is imperfect but endearing. “The commies over there, watching?”

Germany can see a pair of guards now, binoculars held up to their eyes.

“No,” says Germany. “I don’t. But the watching—it’s worse for them.”

As they walk, Germany sees the manned towers, the vehicles. More than usual. Helicopters fly overhead periodically. These days, America’s grin is less bright, but he wears it still. “This is great,” he says, with a quiet laugh. “They’re freaking out. They think we’re up to something.”

Germany looks at him. “Are we?”

“Nah,” says America. “No more than usual.”

The cheer in his voice should be startling, but isn’t.

America leaves before lunch. He has a war to fight in Vietnam.

Germany looks at the Wall. He remembers. 

A dark bird against the gray sky.

**Author's Note:**

>  _En prise_ — In chess, an undefended piece or pawn exposed to capture.
> 
>  _Above him, vengeance_ — May 2nd, 1945. The end of the Battle of Berlin, where Soviet forces eventually overran and defeated the last remaining German defenses. The Red Army committed terrible human rights offenses against the Germans in the aftermath of this battle, causing mass trauma for East Germany as a whole. Germany and Berlin are then divided into American, British, French, and Soviet occupation zones. 
> 
> _At the Kammergericht_ — February 25th, 1947. Official dissolution of the state of Prussia by the Allied Control Council.
> 
>  _And more than that, I want us to be friends_ — July 11th, 1947. America announces a new occupation directive, JCS 1779, which states: "An orderly, prosperous Europe requires the economic contributions of a stable and productive Germany."
> 
>  _America lands in Tempelhof at noon_ — Early June, 1948. The Soviet Union blockades West Berlin in order to try and starve out Western occupying forces. Thus begins the Berlin airlift, which brought almost 9,000 tons of food and supplies to West Berlin daily.
> 
>  _White eagle on a field of yellow_ — Patch of the 27th Fighter Squadron, the oldest active USAF (United States Air Force) fighter squadron, which operated in both the European and Mediterranean theaters during WWII. 
> 
> _America’s busy and France is heading back to Indochina, so it falls to me inform you_ — May 23rd, 1949. The American and British occupation zones of West Germany (known as the Bizone, or Bizonia) unite with the French zone to create the Federal Republic of Germany. 
> 
> _He’s been rather vocal about that lately_ — The Red Scare is now in full swing in the good ol’ US of A.
> 
>  _But now, at least, he knows who he is_ — October 7th, 1949. The Soviet Union forms the German Democratic Republic.
> 
>  _The Lubyanka_ — The headquarters of the NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs), the CPSU’s law enforcement agency.
> 
>  _A house at night_ — _White House at Night_ , painted by Van Gogh six weeks before his death. One of the many paintings first stolen out of private collections by the Nazis and then looted by the Soviets during WWII. Presumed lost forever until it resurfaced at the Hermitage Museum in 1995.
> 
>  _He would enjoy it here_ — March 10th, 1952. The Stalin Note, a diplomatic proposal for a reunification and neutralization of Germany, was delivered to the Western allied powers. However, the allies didn't take it seriously, suspicious of Stalin's motives and believing it to be a bluff. 
> 
> _He was not even Russian_ — March 5th, 1953. The death of Stalin, who was actually Georgian.
> 
>  _Welcome to the club_ — May 9th, 1955. West Germany is accepted into NATO and begins rearmament.
> 
>  _That boy is out of his sodding mind_ — 1950s America was messed up. The paranoia caused by McCarthyism and the Red Scare allowed for numerous illegal CIA operations, such as Project MKUltra.
> 
>  _I have a plan_ — May 14th, 1955. The Warsaw Pact is founded, the Communist response to the formation of NATO and the inclusion of West Germany.
> 
>  _Then they build the Wall_ — August 13th, 1961. Following a period of unsuccessful talks regarding the future of Germany, and after years of illegal East German emigration to the West to escape the Eastern Bloc, the Soviet government erects the "Anti-Fascist Protective Wall" to keep Western "fascist" influence out of East Berlin. Really, it was a wall built to keep the East Germans in.


End file.
